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Aside from the very fact that being imprisoned was a terrible thing --no matter how well the jailers treated them-- if asked Bilbo would have to say the very worst thing about it was the lack of anything to do. Dwarves were not by nature creatures of idleness, not in Bilbo's experience, and the simple lack of anything to do was like to drive them to something close to madness.

Bilbo did what he could to stem the tide; he talked to each of them in low tones, whatever they wished to speak of, whether it was sharing recipes with Bombur or conversing about literature with Balin, Bilbo was more than willing to do his share. Bofur preferred to discuss the different types of ale Bilbo had sampled in his years, lamenting only once that he'd come along on this quest on the promise of free beer. Bifur was the only Dwarf with whom Bilbo could not truly share but he seemed content enough by Bilbo's presence, and so Bilbo offered it when he could.

Thorin asked for little except for word of the others and any information Bilbo could glean about their jailer. He wished to know the exact layout of their prisons, to the very step, the patterns the guards walked and how many of them there were. Bilbo gave what information he could, memorizing the littlest detail to offer. Thorin seemed to think it may well help with their escape and whether or not it could, the distraction was at least welcomed.

Although once Bilbo caught him in the shadow of melancholy, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall closest to the bars, his knees drawn up so that he might rest his elbows upon them. That one time, Thorin spoke to him through most of the night, his voice low and thick as smoke, and that time he spoke of Erebor. Of its halls and walkways, the magnificence of its mines. He spoke of the marketplaces and throne rooms, of caves still hidden in its depths and the gleam of gold veined in its rocky walls.

Bilbo had sat as close as the bars allowed, reaching a hand through and clasping Thorin's in his grip. To Thorin he might be invisible, a cool touch that he could not see. To Bilbo, his ghostly hand was caught in Thorin's and he sat and listened, hardly noticing the soft brush of lips against the back of his hand when Thorin raised it, his breath a damp, warm touch as he told Bilbo of his memories of the Lonely Mountain.

The next morning his uncommon melancholy had vanished and in its place was the Thorin that Bilbo knew best, demanding answers and Bilbo offered them as much as he could, soothing his agitation with word on the others, with whatever he could, and any hand he might have offered would not have been seen.

In the end, it was Kíli and Fíli who were the greatest problem, the ones who seemed to fall into the deepest depressions; sullen moods that Bilbo could not seem to lift with any amount of cheer or encouragement. It was Kíli who told him, one dark night when Bilbo had come across him in a fitful sleep, crying out from nightmares that he refused to describe.

Instead, he confessed in low tones that he had never been away from his brother, not in the entirety of their lives and as astonishing as Bilbo found that, it also gave him a pang of sympathy tinged with his own homesickness, for he well understood just how it felt to be away from what you knew.

In a burst of inspiration, Bilbo offered to pass messages between them, whatever it was they wished to say to each other. Kíli had raised his face from where he had buried it in his knees, his wet eyes alive for the first time in weeks and Bilbo cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. He had assured the others of the well-being of their brothers and cousins but he had never thought to bring actual words, an error that he fully intended to rectify.

Every one of the Dwarves was eager for a chance to offer word to their kin but none more than the two young brothers. They took to the idea with vigor, passing at first simple greetings and then the occasional joke, memories, whatever came to their minds that they wished to speak about to their brother. Bilbo was nothing more than a messenger boy and it suited him well enough simply to see their smiles when he offered yet another verbal tidbit.

It was Fíli who had the idea that perhaps Bilbo might have more to offer, particularly when he learned that the only language Bilbo knew well was Westron.

They would not teach him Khuzdûl, though Bilbo took no offense to that. But they did know a few other languages, one, Fili explained, that they had learnt while living in the Blue Mountains. There were a few settlements of Men there, more nomads than what could be called a proper town, and they spoke a language of their own.

Bilbo was rather surprised to hear that Thorin had insisted they learn it as he did himself. For all his dislike of outsiders, he had some notion of shrewdness and being able to speak to those whom you did trade with was of particular use.

Better still, Fili pointed out, it was doubtful that the Elves spoke it and so perhaps it was something they could use to their advantage.

Fili and Kíli had taken it upon themselves to teach him a few phrases, and Bilbo had parroted them back gamely, with the enthusiasm of one speaking by rote in a language they did not understand. Despite their delight in the lessons, Bilbo had his doubts that it would be useful; it would take a great deal of time to speak it with any fluency and Bilbo had a great deal of hope that they would manage to escape before that.

They made a game of it and Bilbo indulged them, for boredom of his own was settling in after weeks of hiding in shadows. It was simple; he was to learn a simple phrase and take it back to the other, and only then would they tell him the meaning of it. A few turned out to be lewd, of course, for in their youth Kíli and Fíli still found jokes about intestinal issues and backsides to be hilarious. Indulging them hurt no one, though.

One phrase in particular they were insistent upon and Bilbo fumbled his tongue around it time and again, forcing it to reluctantly form the harsh syllables and grating tones.

"But what does it mean?" Bilbo complained, the third time he managed to say it.

"It's a traditional greeting," Fíli told him, solemnly, something Bilbo rather doubted until Kíli gave him the same reply, almost absently.

"Yes, a traditional greeting. Important, that phrase, need to know how to meet a person before you can trade with them."

"I suppose that makes sense," Bilbo agreed, doubtfully, and from then on he parroted the phrase with growing confidence. It wasn't so terribly far to the Blue Mountains from Hobbiton; knowing a phrase or two in the language of Men might possible come in handy. One never knew, after all.

After escaping from their prisons in Mirkwood, in barrels no less, the lessons seemed to slip their minds and it was not until Lake Town when they were amongst Men that Bilbo remembered. A shame that these particular Men were happy to speak Westron, for Bilbo was of a mind to put his language lessons to use.

Then again, there was at least one other in their party who spoke it and Bilbo was determined to surprise him with it. He'd given Thorin a surprise or two in Mirkwood, true enough, but some mischievous, Tookish part of Bilbo was not content with that. Lingering in the very back of his thoughts were memories that were not quite old enough to be dusty, mocking words about being a grocer, about being useless and while Thorin had more than apologized for them, his opinion as changed as was possible, it still niggled at Bilbo, a mental annoyance.

Too, there was the memory of Thorin's face in those moments of surprise; the widening of blue eyes, lips parting as astonishment melted into delight and then Bilbo was greeted with the all-too rare treat of a true smile from Thorin Oakenshield. The temptation to be granted that smile again was entirely too much for Bilbo to resist and selfishly, he wanted it all for himself, that surprise and delight for him alone and if such a little thing might gain it, Bilbo was more than willing to try.

The only question left was timing. It wouldn't do to surprise him around the others, of course; even if none of them spoke a word of it, they would certainly have a thing or two to say about it and frankly, the only interest Bilbo cared for was Thorin's. He refused to examine that too closely; better to make plans about just when he might spring his little surprise on Thorin that it was to think about his own reasoning.

In the end, Bilbo found his moment quite by accident. The inn that was putting them up in Lake Town had a loud and boisterous common room, along with a decent cottage pie that went quite well with a large mug of ale and the Dwarves were of great interest to all, curious Men abounded and the others found themselves offering tales of their adventures to all and why not when an ale might be offered in return?

A few of the Dwarves were less inclined to the offer; Ori for one was often secreted away in his room. Thorin also avoided the company of Men, preferring Dwarves or no one, and that was how Bilbo found him, seated alone in the common room with the said same cottage pie and an ale at his elbow.

It was an opportunity begging to be seized and Bilbo did not waste it, taking it by the hands as it came to him. Thorin hardly looked at him when Bilbo sat beside him, offering little more than an absent hello, and Bilbo saw his moment and took it.

The words were guttural in comparison to Westron, low and thick at the back of the throat and the syllables rolled off his tongue easily for his memory did not fail him. Weeks of readily sharing those words back and forth between a pair of Dwarves who had missed each other to the point of misery made speaking easy and Bilbo offered his traditional greeting in the manner of Men of the Nomad Tribes of the Blue Mountains with confidence.

The reaction he received from them, on the other hand, was not entirely what he expected.

To begin with, there was no widening of the eyes, no quiet surprise or shock. Instead, Thorin choked on his last bite of pie, very nearly to the point of gagging. His face was a shade of crimson Bilbo had only rarely seen in his life and often those moments had been with a great deal more drunkenness than this evening had seen. With a flailing hand, Thorin reached for his ale, nearly spilling it in his franticness and he took the flagon in both hands, drinking with desperation and only then did he manage to cough, hacking out whatever bit of pie he'd managed to inhale rather than swallow.

A bit timidly, Bilbo patted him on the back, his own cheeks hot with embarrassment though he wasn’t even certain why he should be embarrassed. Certain or not, it was clear that something was amiss and he twisted his hands together nervously when Thorin waved him away, swallowing down another draught of ale before dragging in a hard breath, another, slowly bringing his breathing back to normal.

Finally, Thorin turned to look at him, and while there might be surprise in his narrow look, there was no delight as he rasped out, "Where did you learn that?"

"It's...it's a traditional greeting, isn't it?" Bilbo asked, faltering. A ridiculous question, he realized with an abrupt sense of gloom, because even Men weren't likely to choke on their own dinners at something as simple as a greeting.

"I suppose it might be, in certain company," Thorin told him dryly.

"Oh." Bilbo pursed his lips. Drat those two little brats anyway. He hoped that their smallclothes shrunk in the wash. "So tell me then, what exactly did I say?"

The way Thorin visibly hesitated did not fill him with confidence and finally he leaned down, whispering low against Bilbo's ear.

Bilbo nodded jerkily, leaning away. Never mind shrinking, Bilbo had a fervent hope that the laundress starched their undershorts to boards, that she left enough soap in the rinse that those two would be scratching their privates for a week. "Right, then. Not exactly traditional."

"I would not call it so, no," Thorin told him and there was the hint of that smile, the blue of his eyes was neither surprised nor delighted, but it was warm nonetheless.

"And I said that. To you," Bilbo said, a touch numbly. Honestly, after all he'd done for those two, this was how he was repaid? If their undershorts did not trouble them this week, Bilbo swore he would steal them away and burn them at any chance he might have.

That earned him an honest to heavens smirk, the sight of which was enough to draw a bit of a squirm from Bilbo, "You did, yes. Perhaps you should count yourself lucky I don't take you up on the offer."

Bilbo swallowed, hard, biting his lip briefly. Oh, that was…oh. Not at all what he'd been thinking, surely, he hadn’t even considered and…oh. "Yes, of course. Quite lucky, aren't I."

Thorin propped his chin on one hand, his elbow on the table as he considered Bilbo between lowered lashes, "And who did you say taught you that?"

"Hmm," Bilbo took a renewed interest in his own stein. "Do you know, I don't believe I recall."

Perhaps he wasn't to have that sweetened surprise, that rare smile. That was not to be Bilbo's, not this night. Instead, he was given a rarer gift, one hardly to be heard. Thorin laughed aloud, a soft, deep chuckle that washed over Bilbo like a gentle wave of warmth, "You do seem to have a terrible memory when it suits you."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Bilbo demurred, sipping at his mug. The beer the Men made was appallingly weak but flavorful nonetheless.

"No? I would think you'd have no trouble recalling whoever it was who taught you speak so about your knees and thighs, and their proper placement."

"I don't believe there's a need for such crass talk, is there?" Bilbo asked primly and Thorin chuckled again, another unexpected gift to match the first.

"I've spent much of my life in the ranks of warriors;" Thorin said, eyes still bright with amusement. "Trust me when I say I am hardly being crass. Although, I do believe you began this."

"Unknowingly!" Bilbo protested. He gave Thorin a sideways glance, lowering his voice so that he might not be heard by any of the others over the din surrounding them. The common room was filled to bursting with Men and Dwarves alike and Thorin's amusement was a happy treat. Bilbo was more than content to do without anyone else's. "I can hardly be faulted for that. If I were to speak plainly about the placement of my backside amidst your knees, then perhaps I might be to blame."

A large hand settled on the back of Bilbo's neck, thick fingers grasping and Bilbo caught his breath as Thorin leaned in, closer than propriety dictated. "That seemed plain enough to me, Master Baggins."

Bilbo swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, as one large thumb rubbed circles against the nape of his neck. Was Thorin truly offering—but he couldn't possibly---. He closed his eyes, shivering as that thumb made its way beneath his collar, skirting along the worn fabric and drawing up the side of his neck. It lingered in the hollow behind his ear, stroking that tiny, tender place with unexpected delicacy.

"Shall I speak plainly as well?" Thorin murmured, low.

"I think you've been quite plain enough," Bilbo choked out over the rim of his mug. He gave their Company a narrow glance. None were paying them the least mind, each deep in their own cups or joining another roaring chorus of song. Kíli and Fíli were near the hearth, a crowd of Men around them and whatever tales they were telling had their audience enthralled, for their hands always had a mug of ale and the crowd only grew with each boom of laughter.

It was their loneliness that had given Bilbo the words to say this night but it was a different memory that drew Bilbo further on; that of a hand gripping his own, strong, callused fingers pressed into his palm and a smoky voice weaving him such tales of a mountain that Bilbo had been gripped with his own longing, pining for a place he had never even seen.

Their Company were all happily occupied with drink and song, and there were none to notice him slip his hand beneath the table to find Thorin's knee, his small fingers gripping tightly. A larger hand covered his own, drawing it upward and Bilbo took a shaky breath at the feel of what lay under his palm, hard and swollen even beneath his trousers.

"Is this eloquence enough?" Thorin asked, roughly, his voice catching as Bilbo squeezed impulsively, the swelling beneath his palm large enough to fill his hand.

"Perhaps," Bilbo tightened his hand again and then withdrew it, finishing off the last of his mug as he stood, shrugging off Thorin's hand at his neck as he went. "I find I speak better in private."

He did not wait to see if he was followed, only made his way through the throngs of lumbering, drunken men, grateful that he was clearheaded enough to weave around them without being trod upon. The narrow stairs leading up to their lodgings were on the other side of the room and Bilbo found them easily enough, darting up the darkened stairwell. Only to yelp in surprise as strong arms caught him up before he made it to the landing, struggling instinctively as he was turned, and a larger body pushed him up against the wall.

His flailing hands caught upon a heavy collar and long hair, his eyes catching a glimpse of hot blue eyes in a bearded face before Thorin buried it against Bilbo's neck, his beard scraping roughly over the tender skin and his teeth sharp, digging in lightly.

"This is—" Bilbo gasped out, eyes fluttering shut as he scrabbled uselessly to find a place to grip, finding only long, cool hair to tangle his hands in, his nails scratching against the thin fabric of Thorin's shirt. "Not…not private."

Hot breath against his wet throat as Thorin laughed against him, "Never fear, little Hobbit, I am discretion itself."

Large hands settled on his backside, lifting effortlessly and perhaps Bilbo should be irritated to be carried so. It certainly should not have sent a bright surge of arousal through him, to feel the evidence of Thorin's strength. To be so easily carried, Thorin climbing the stairs as Bilbo clutched at him, his knees tight to Thorin's sides.

Bilbo had no sense of distance, only knew that Thorin carried him with quick strides through the corridor to one of the rooms. His own, Thorin's, Bilbo did not know, but the door opened to a fumbled key and then they were in darkness, the candlelight from the hallway cutting off as Thorin kicked the door shut. Bilbo bit his lip, braced for the softness of a bed beneath his shoulders and a heavy body between his legs. It was a surprise then to find himself straddling Thorin's lap, the Dwarf sprawling back on the bed.

Large hands moved over him with surprising delicacy, the flicker of fingertips, thumbs tracing the line of his collarbone, drawing down his arms until Thorin could circle one wrist with his fingers.

"You are so tiny," Thorin murmured, and Bilbo stiffened, mouth opening to protest only for words to be lost in a moan as Thorin skimmed his hands up Bilbo's sides, dipping beneath his shirt. "So light, your bones feel thin. I feel as though I am holding a bird."

"I'm quite a bit sturdier than that," Bilbo told him, breathlessly, and found those light, quick touches had had another purpose. His waistcoat had vanished, his bracers drawn aside without his knowledge and already his shirt buttons had been plucked loose. Strong fingers found bare skin, the tips grazing against him and Bilbo stuttered out a moan, bracing his own hands against the hard flatness of Thorin's chest.

"Sturdy, yes," Thorin murmured, and though Bilbo could feel him moving, the hot touch of a mouth against his throat still startled him in the darkness. "You've well proven that. But I hope you do not mind if I am gentle, nonetheless."

Was there another option, Bilbo wondered, a bit wildly, and briefly he thought of what Thorin might be like, ungentle. The bright surge of lust just thinking it made Bilbo breathless and perhaps that was something to beg for another time.

Tonight, it seemed simpler to relax beneath the easy touch of rough palms and fingertips that guided his shirt down his arms. There was a whicker of fabric as it was tossed aside and Bilbo worried for a moment about dirty floors and wrinkles. Then the heat of Thorin's mouth was at his chest, teeth a sharp, sweet pain at his nipple and Bilbo yelped aloud, grabbing at Thorin's head with both hands as he worried that little nub between his teeth.

"Oh, oh," Bilbo whimpered, fingers tangling into dark hair as Thorin mouthed his way to the other side and repeated it, until that one stood upright as well, nibbled raw and eager.

Dwarf gentle seemed somewhat different than a Hobbit's, Bilbo thought, dazed, and strong hands caught his bottom, boosting him up so that Thorin could press his bearded face into the smooth skin of Bilbo's belly. Ticklish, yes, and Bilbo squirmed, trying not to giggle as Thorin rubbed his face briskly against him. Better was the wet touch of his mouth, his tongue flicking against Bilbo's navel, then lower, chin nudging at the waistband until Bilbo reached between them and hastily undid the fastenings.

It seemed almost rude, as though he was demanding Thorin do something with his mouth so close to his eager arousal. Difficult to worry about manners when Thorin was nuzzling impatiently at his fingers, each swipe of his tongue closer to where Bilbo wanted it so desperately and when it finally grazed against the slick head of his cock, Bilbo shuddered, hands clutching at the slim braids in Thorin's hair desperately.

Thorin lifted his head long enough to murmur, "Try not to pull them off," only to lower it again and take Bilbo fully within the slick heat of his mouth. He'd never imagined such a thing, never even considered the possibility, of Thorin sucking him with near brutal eagerness, his hands tight on Bilbo's hips as he urged him into movement. Hesitantly, Bilbo obeyed their impatient pull, pushing forward and sliding deeper into that dark, wet warmth.

"Oh, you," Bilbo whispered, eyes closed for there was no seeing in the darkness. He could imagine though, his mind's eye eager to show him Thorin's face, the way be might look with his mouth swollen, lips parted to allow Bilbo to push between them. The curl of his tongue at the underside was like a plush invitation, guiding him within, and how was it possible he was even here, on his knees atop Thorin, taking his mouth thusly?

"Your mouth," Bilbo moaned, hardly aware of speaking though the words mirrored his thoughts. His cries turned wordless as Thorin hummed softly around him, in agreement perhaps that his mouth was a lovely, glorious place to be and Bilbo should enjoy it vigorously.

Whether that was his intention or no, Bilbo obeyed the unspoken command, slender braids wrapped around both hands as he rocked into that gorgeous wet heat. Briefly, he was reminded of how it was to hold a pony's reins, biting his lip to stifle a laugh that may have tried to escape. He was riding, he supposed, riding the slippery path offered by mouth and tongue, and that was a thought he'd be keeping to himself, thank you very much.

Any humor was driven from his mind with shocked swiftness as one of Thorin's hands shifted from his hip, a thick finger trailing down his backside. It stilled as Bilbo did, the both of them frozen.

With a care, Thorin let him slip free, though his lips were still a warm, gentle touch, easing the chill of wet skin exposed to the air as he murmured aloud, "No?"

A simple question; there was no assumption, no pressure in either word or touch and Bilbo suspected that if he demurred, this night would still end pleasantly enough, with no disappointments on either side.

And yet…and yet…

"Yes," Bilbo sighed out, dissolving into a low whimper as Thorin rumbled approvingly, the vibration traveling through him even as the slick heat of his mouth took him in again.

This time, that finger did not hesitate, pressing unerringly between the softness of his cheeks to the tiny opening hidden between them and Bilbo choked off a cry as it pressed firmly, just the tip easing into him.

He dropped his head until his chin touched his chest, dragging in harsh, desperate gasps. Oh, but that was strange; no one had ever touched him so, not even in his youthful fumbling and though he'd heard of such things he'd never expect to feel them. Never thought to be gasping as he sat astride a dwarf's lap, never thought he'd whimper unhappily as the finger edging within him withdrew, only to return a moment later slick with something, Bilbo knew not what.

The darkness blocked his awareness and all Bilbo could do was feel and hear, listen to the obscenely wet sounds his cock made as Thorin sucked him, feel the oddness of that slick finger prodding against him, then within him, his body somehow making room for it.

It seemed to take only moments before he was spilling over the stroking pressure of that tongue, coupled with the unyielding press of Thorin's finger within him. Dimly, Bilbo thought he should have offered some other warning than to simply tug hard on the braids in his grasp, moaning and gasping as Thorin nearly choked around him and whether he'd meant to swallow or not, he had little choice now.

Bilbo was still shivering and sighing when Thorin pulled away, grabbing Bilbo's shoulder with his free hand and hauling him down until he could capture his protesting mouth, sharing the salt-bitter of his own taste. "You impertinent little brat," Thorin breathed into his mouth and Bilbo could not protest its untruth.

With a quick jerk of his head, Thorin tugged his braids from Bilbo's slackened grip and he yelped aloud as he was suddenly upended. The bed was as soft beneath his shoulders as he'd imagined, though Bilbo could not help but shiver as his trousers were tossed away and his legs were pushed wide, the thick finger within him driving in persistently, urging his reluctant body to make room within, for surely another invasion would follow.

"Easy," Thorin soothed, and his other hand was warm on the back of Bilbo's thigh, pressing it back gently against his chest. It left him open and exposed, though still covered in darkness. A thumb stroked behind his knee lightly, hardly a distraction as Thorin twisted his finger deeper inside. It felt strange and somehow good, to be opened so and another finger struggled to join the first, slippery and urgent as it pressed into Bilbo.

"Oh," he groaned, reaching out, his hands flailing in empty darkness until he found hard, shoulders, still covered in a shirt. It wasn't fair, was it, that he was to be so bare and Thorin was not, but Bilbo couldn't find his words to protest. All that fell from his lips were pleas, begging softly as Thorin worked his thick fingers within. Bilbo clutched at the shirt beneath his hand, the fine fabric crumpled in his grip and he startled to feel Thorin move, ducking his head to bite softly at his inner thigh.

The scrape of teeth and beard alike drew another cry from him and he could feel the hot blurts of breath against the tender skin, the rumbling groan that answered his own. Thorin wanted him, Bilbo realized with a jolt, shuddering as Thorin pressed teeth against him yet again. He'd known it, of course he'd known, they were lying in a bed together and yet, to feel it, such a visceral show of proof, his ragged, desperate breathing, the low whine edging each exhale.

"T-take me," Bilbo urged, softly, and was that low, raspy voice his own? The aching need in it, the plea, could that truly be his?

Thorin groaned into the bare, bitten skin of his thigh, the press of his fingers twisting, "You are not ready."

"I am," Bilbo argued, catching behind his knees with his own hands and spreading them wider, holding himself open and Thorin's breath caught.

"You are as tight as a robber's purse strings," Thorin gritted out, "And I will not hurt you."

Another twist of his fingers left Bilbo sobbing, an emptiness he had never realized existed begging to be filled, "You won't, you won't," he pleaded, "Take me, please, I need you, please!"

The fingers within him stilled, the air around them filled with low, rasping breaths and Bilbo bit his lip, trying not to move, to squirm, wanting something he could not name. Then, low, he heard Thorin curse softly, "Damn you."

Bilbo caught a sob in his throat as Thorin slipped his fingers out, then there was smooth skin against his inner thighs as Thorin knelt between his legs. Dimly, he heard a soft, wet sound, struggled to puzzle it out and realized with a sort of thin hysteria that Thorin had just spit, onto his fingers perhaps? Bilbo had no idea, could not see a thing, and then the time for thinking was past. Hot, thick pressure against his backside, seeking entrance and Bilbo bit his lip, struggling to relax.

For a long moment, Bilbo wondered vaguely if it was even possible. His body was reluctant to yield, resisting the thickness of Thorin's cock as it strove to press into him. Dimly, he could hear Thorin swearing, his hands sliding beneath Bilbo's hips to raise them and still, the tight clench of his entrance refused him.

"Push back against me," Thorin whispered, low, and Bilbo slung an arm over his blushing face even though he could not see and obeyed. Finally, the head pried inside, the blunt, slippery pressure breaching him, and Bilbo whimpered, faintly, the stretching almost too much to bear.

"Breathe," Thorin whispered, though he hardly seemed able to manage it himself, "Breathe, just—ah, Durin's blood, you are tight!"

Bilbo gulped in shaky gasps of air, struggling to relax and Thorin was still as stone within him, just barely inside. Inside, Bilbo realized, wonderingly, Thorin was inside him and unthinkingly, Bilbo reached up and caught his shoulders, felt the harsh tremors shaking him. Thorin was shaking, for him, his hair a damp, sweaty mass brushing the backs of Bilbo's hands. He tangled his fingers into it and tugged, dragging Thorin down until he could press kisses to his damp forehead.

"It's all right," Bilbo panted, and it was, the pain was easing, his body reluctantly accepting. Hesitantly, Bilbo squirmed and felt Thorin gasp, both within and without, as he slid in another bare inch.

"Don't!" Thorin ground out, hips lurching forward until he forced himself to stillness again. His shaking grew worse, fingers digging bruises into Bilbo's hips. "Do not…move. I cannot…"

"Then do not," Bilbo whimpered. He ignored Thorin's snarled protest, tangled his hands into sweat-damp hair and pushed his hips up. "Have me!"

A thin scream was dragged from his throat as Thorin finally, finally obeyed, thrusting into him with enough force to knock the headboard against the wall. It echoed around them, a hollow, wooden thunk joined with low, harsh curses as Thorin took him. Deep, thick heat inside him and Bilbo could do little but hold on, fingers numb and clenched as Thorin pushed into him, a harsh, driving force.

"Ah, ah, ah," Bilbo wailed and so much of him, so much to take into the smallness of his own body and if it did not precisely feel good, it did feel overwhelming; the strike of Thorin's hips against him with each hard thrust, the length of his cock spearing him and the sounds Thorin made, low, broken, each one cracking as though it was yanked from his throat. The pleasure came in sharp blurts, almost forced upon him and Bilbo could not move, could only allow himself to be used even as he struggled to lift his hips into it, desperate for more.

Thorin is speaking, low, desperate words and dimly Bilbo recognized them, realized that beneath his breath Thorin was gasping out apologies, a low, garbled fall of words, "Sorry, I am…tight! You—ah, I cannot—"

Frantically, Bilbo shook his head, working the thickness of his tongue around words of his own. He could not bear that, could not, though all he could manage was to cry out an affirmation, "Yes! Yes, yes—ah!"

"Bilbo," Thorin choked out and oh, his name, to hear his name spoken so. The tangle of hair around his hand could not be shaken loose, dragged along as Bilbo reached between them, abrading gently as he wrapped his trembling hand around his own length. There was nothing but Thorin and the darkness, the rich, heavy scent of their sex, and the driving shaft inside him. The sounds overwhelmed him in the absence of sight, the slap of hips against his own, the lewd, slick sound their joining made, the desperate groans between them.

So terribly much to take in and Bilbo stroked himself with frantic desperation, whimpering as Thorin's hand fumbled over his own in a tangle of slippery fingers and hair. Bilbo tipped his head back in a silent cry, spilling hot over their joined hands and clenching hard around the hard length within him. He felt as much as heard Thorin groan, a deep rumbling vibration that made him shake all the harder, lost in the sweet pulse of pleasure and for one brief, terrifying moment Bilbo dimly wondered if it would never stop.

Ridiculous, pleasure-soaked thoughts, though perhaps he could be forgiven for it, collapsing back against the bed linens, finally loose and pliant enough to allow Thorin to simply take what he needed from this. The hard, broken rhythm within sent shocky blurts through him, good and faintly painful at the same time, and the sounds dragging out of Thorin's throat were greedy with need, low and base, and animal enough that Bilbo cupped his face with sticky fingers, urging him on wordlessly.

The drag of his short nails through Thorin's beard seemed to be more than he could stand and he snarled out a shout, driving into Bilbo one last, brutal time. Bilbo swore he could feel the hot pulse of it, the tremor shaking through Thorin as he gave in and spilled roughly into him, hips jerking, straining to push in deeper still, as though Thorin might fill him with his seed, staining him with it for all time.

His weight was something of a shock, settling heavily over Bilbo with enough force to send his breath whuffing out of him. Almost immediately it was gone, Thorin pushing up on his elbows and Bilbo drew in a hasty breath, wrapping his arms quickly around his neck when Thorin would have rolled away. His resistance was feeble at best and slowly, Thorin relaxed down atop him, let Bilbo bear his weight with stubborn contentment.

"I am…" Thorin began, a low rasp, and he cleared his throat, settling his head against Bilbo's chest at a sharp, insistent tug to one braid. "I am almost certain that I did not mean to be so rough with you."

"Mmmmph," Bilbo mumbled in return. He squirmed testingly and there was a sharp ache in his backside, his insides felt bruised and well-used. It was nothing that would keep him from his feet on the morrow, though, and Bilbo sighed, slipping his hand beneath the heavy, sweat-dampened mass of Thorin's hair to clasp the back of his neck. "Told you. I'm quite sturdy."

"I do not disagree, but I did not mean to test it so thoroughly," Thorin murmured, and the edge of his teeth found Bilbo's jaw, nipping lightly. "You are lovely in your pleasure, do you know?"

Bilbo scoffed weakly, "You don’t need to ply me with compliments, particularly untruthful ones. You could not have possibly seen me in this darkness."

Thorin stilled beneath his hands, raising his head and Bilbo had the idea he was on the receiving end of a narrow look, "Bilbo," Thorin said, slowly, "I could count the buttons on your waistcoat in this light, were you wearing one."

"Oh," Bilbo blinked, then, "Oh! Oh, you—" He covered his blush with his own hands, because it was one thing to squirm wantonly in the darkness and another entirely to be seen.

A warm, bearded mouth kissed his hands, the coarse hair scraping pleasantly against his knuckles and his breath was warm as Thorin chuckled, "Did I not say you were lovely? Come, don't hide from me now."

"I am not hiding," Bilbo said, muffled behind his palms, "But if I cannot see you, then you cannot see me."

A hand sliding down his belly made Bilbo squeak in surprise, even as Thorin murmured appreciatively, "I can see enough of you."

"Thorin—" Bilbo protested weakly, for surely he couldn't be expecting more.

His touch remained gentle, little more than a soothing, curious petting. "So smooth," Thorin whispered, his thumb tracing the thin line of hair that led from Bilbo's navel. "So bare."

Not a state that they shared, Bilbo thought crossly, tugging at the shirt Thorin still wore. Had he only opened his trousers? Was he even…"Are you still wearing your boots?" Bilbo demanded.

Silence, then Thorin offered a wary, "No?"

"I cannot see you, but I can still feel!" Bilbo twisted, trying to stretch his own toes lower and simply moving made him groan. The hand on his belly firmed, fingers spreading possessively as Thorin stilled him.

"I hurt you," Thorin said, harshly, though his touch remained gentle, stroking in slow, tender sweeps.

"You did not," Bilbo said, exasperated. "It was bound to be somewhat uncomfortable, being that I---well—" Bilbo let that thought trail away with a cough. "Anyway, I'm not at all hurt."

Somehow, he suspected that Thorin was gazing at him suspiciously and Bilbo managed to offer the darkness in front of his eyes a small pout, offering a kiss to nothingness. To have a gentle mouth close over his was no small relief and Bilbo sighed his contentment into it, cupping Thorin's face and delighting at the softness of his beard abrading his palms.

Kisses in the dark were entirely better than riddles, Bilbo decided hazily, and then he could only frown as one was offered to him, albeit unintentionally. Between the soft press of their lips, Thorin murmured something, his voice rumbling in his chest an extra touch of loveliness that drew a shiver from Bilbo. The words, however, were not ones that he knew, though he recognized that guttural speech and likely would now until the end of his days.

"What did you say?" Bilbo asked, torn between his sleepiness and the desire for another tender kiss. One that was granted, a touch cheekily as Thorin's mouth smacked lightly against his own before he drew away. Bilbo's alarmed protests were answered before they could be spoken by the sound of a boot hitting the floor.

"You mean this?" Thorin said with the poorest imitation of innocence, repeating his rasping words and following it with the thud of another boot.

"Of course I mean that, have you said anything else that I wouldn't have understood?" Bilbo said, a touch heatedly, for he was sleepy and sore and not entirely in the mood for games.

His mood eased with another soft kiss and bare skin settling against his own, Thorin drawing him into his arms and tucking the blanket around them both. "I shall teach it to you, sometime," Thorin whispered to him, like a secret to be shared beneath the covers. "It's a traditional greeting."

"Oh, you—" Bilbo sputtered. The bed shook with silent laughter, Thorin smothering his chuckles into Bilbo's neck. "Yes, thank you ever so much for the reminder."

"It is a memory that I will cherish," Thorin pressed yet another kiss just beneath Bilbo's ear, damp and tempting, "And you may offer me such greetings anytime you wish. Although preferably outside the company of others."

"None else will ever hear a word of it from my lips," Bilbo assured him and he cringed inwardly to think of how many times he'd said those very same words to Kíli and Fíli. Those two had his wroth, oh, indeed they did, and their undershorts would not be safe until Bilbo had had his revenge.

Then again…Bilbo sighed sleepily, drowsing against the lightly furred warmth of Thorin's chest even as Thorin stroked his back in long, gentle touches. He supposed he might owe them a small gratitude.

He drifted to sleep, too exhausted for dreams and if Thorin had another word to say in any language, it would have to wait till morning.

-finis-